Wasp's Sting
by Kefalion
Summary: He was beginning to relax, but he shouldn't have; if Thursday the twelfth of November, 1998 had been a bad day, then there needed to be a new word added to the dictionary for what happened on Friday the Thirteenth.
This story was written for the **Third Round** of the Fourth Season of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. I'm writing as **Beater 1** for The **Wimbourne Wasps**.

The challenge was: **Word Restricted Team Pride**

I hope you're all ready for some team pride! This round is going to focus on your team - that's to say your team name is your prompt. It can be included in any way in your story but make it so your judge is aware! I have bolded what we want you to use as a prompt below:

The Wimbourne **Wasp(s)**

We were also given the task of keeping our story within a certain span of words, my span was: 2551 – 2750

These are the prompts I'm using to block our opponents, the Ballycastle Bats:

4.(word) varnish  
7.(word) destiny  
8.(colour) lilac

I've also used two prompts for a different forum; Hogwarts Houses Challenges. Dialogue: "You have until the count of three..." (pitch) and item: spear (drabble).

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the world J.K. Rowling has created, it's hers, all of it and its inhabitants.

Warning: this went really dark. Death is imminent, even if it isn't explicit or has an M rating.

My wonderful, brilliant Wasps! Teamwork is really our forte. Thank you for your help with another round. Buzz, buzz!

 **PS.** Word-count provided by MS Word

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 **Wasp's Sting  
** _Words: 2 733_

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 _He only had one thing left to live for and that was revenge. He'd lost everything following a man who'd been given a vanquisher by a prophecy, but even knowing that destiny was against them, he had not turned his back on the cause._

 _His life had ended in May; he might still be animated, but it was an illusion. A clock was slowly ticking down to his death. Still, he was luckier than most; because of his slow curse, he could choose what to do with his death, and he had the perfect plan. He would avenge his Lord and it would be beautiful._

 **ooo**

"All right, people! When I call your names you will step up here and get your case files. I want them solved and on my desk by Sunday at the latest." Groans filled the small assembly; the sounds of malcontent were not appreciated. "Suck it up! If you want to lie in bed and cuddle your pigmy puffs all weekend, you'll have to be quick about getting the assignment done. You will be graded on the normal scale. Anyone gets under a three and you might want to think about quitting the Auror Program before I make you quit. Such poor performance might mean that you shouldn't have been admitted in the first place. Please, do fail and give me the satisfaction of saying 'I told you so' to Shacklebolt's smug face." As he said these words, Head Auror Robards found Harry in the crowd of trainees. He didn't smirk. He didn't move a muscle. He looked at Harry levelly, but it was enough that he'd sought Harry's eye; they both knew what it meant. Robards looked away and called out the first name.

"This is insane; the weekend's all gone!" complained Ron to Harry and Neville. "I didn't think we'd have bad luck until tomorrow. I've even heard people saying that Thursday the twelfth can be a lucky day. Whoever said that had it all wrong. And November is bad enough as it is, stupid weather."

"I just hope I do better than the last time," muttered Harry with a shake of his head at Ron's comment about the weather. "I got a three last time. I can't get a three again."

"It was only bad luck last time," said Neville, causing Ron to snort and mutter under his breath about bad luck coming around again.

"Sure, it was," said Harry, talking over Ron's grumbling, "but Robards doesn't care about that. He's got it in for me. He wants to prove that I'm just a name."

"What's it matter what he thinks?" said Ron. "You know you aren't. You're just better when it's real stuff and not games like this. You've proved yourself before."

"Yeah." Harry was only a bit comforted by that. Sure, he was better with life and death situations, but that wasn't going to be of much help here. He did well when he accompanied his handler on real cases; these tests, however, were simulations. It was all pretend, and the need to act that normally drove him was missing completely. And it was costing him.

They fell into line, and within a moment Robards had passed on Harry's file, looking at him with that same neutral expression that said so much more. He returned a mirrored look filled with steel and hurried out of the room. He would not hand in the solved case by Friday because he wanted to get the weekend off; he would do it to prove that he was as good as the rest and that Voldemort's end had been more than a game of chance.

"What'd you get?" asked Ron, coming up behind him.

The corners of Harry's mouth twitched. "You know we're not supposed to talk about it. We're not partners now; if we work together we could be suspended. We only get to discuss it with our handlers."

"Right, sorry mate. I do know that. I'm still just so used to it being on us, you know? I thought about asking Hermione for help just the other week and had to stop myself."

"Yeah, I know. I'm going to speak with Williamson about it, and you best speak to Proudfoot."

"Ugh, yeah, I suppose, though that man bloody scares me. He should have been the one called Savage, not that tiny witch Neville got as his mentor."

Harry grinned. "Good luck with that."

"You too, Harry."

 **ooo**

"What's the case, Potter?" Williamson, a wizard in his forties with long hair, asked as Harry came to a stop by his desk.

"I haven't looked at it yet."

"Well, get on with it then; knowing Robards, you don't have any time to waste."

"Yeah, we don't. It's to be done by Sunday."

Williamson grunted and waved for Harry to start reading, which he did. He turned the first page of the case file, noting with some satisfaction that this time the assignment was a bit different. It was based on a real case rather than being a fanciful story written by one of the too-imaginative and bored Aurors; the filing number at the top of the page told him as much. The number also told him that it was a case dating back nearly thirty years.

Most of the text in the file was written in precise script that could be attributed to one of the charmed quills that took copies of all papers that were to be filed away in the archives. There was one line, though, written in another hand, a messy scrawl that was vaguely familiar. Something about it made him want to speak them out loud – like a compulsion. For a moment, he resisted, thinking that it was strange and that if it were forcing him to speak, he really shouldn't do it. Yet the words went tumbling over his lips.

"Morsus Vespae Letalis est, et Morsus Vespae Interet," Harry chanted the Latin words, and as he finished the last syllable he found himself on the floor with Williamson over him and the file across the room. A lilac glow briefly covered his skin like varnish, before it sunk in and disappeared.

"Ouch," the stunned wizard said, blinking up at his handler. He'd never been so close to Williamson before; he could see individual pores in the skin on his nose. And never before had Harry seen the man look so angry.

"Robards will go to Azkaban for this."

"What?"

Williamson crawled to his feet, leaving Harry there on the ground. "Robards has activated case C71-2-34!" he called out, and if the room filled with Dark-Wizard-catchers and trainees hadn't been called to attention by Williamson tackling Harry to the ground, this did it. "With me!" he called, and as one the witches and wizards in deep red robes swept towards Robards' office, Ron and Neville both hurried to Harry.

"What's going on?" Ron hissed, he had his wand out and kept one eye on the door where seven of the Aurors had flocked.

"I don't have a clue," Harry said, and accepted Neville's helping hand to get up from the floor where he'd remained.

No spell-fire and no shouts followed, and the three trainees waited with bated breath, wondering what Williamson had reacted to and what was going to happen next.

Long, tense minutes passed before Robards was lead out of his office, his hands bound behind his back. Two of the biggest Aurors were leading him to the detainment cells, and Williamson was coming back to them, grim-faced and serious.

"Seems like you still have some enemies, Potter," he said.

"What? What was that?"

"Weasley, Longbottom, gather the others, you all need to hear this." Neville and Ron remained standing still for a moment too long, gaping silently. "Does this seem like a drill to you?" Williamson snapped. "You have until the count of three..." There was no need for him to finish the threat.

"Yes, sir!" Neville got out and dragged Ron away to gather the other trainees.

"What's going on?" Harry pressed, his voice nearly drowning in the loud chatter that was filling the room as everyone discussed what had gone down.

"I need you to stay very calm, Harry. You will not like what I'm about to say, but keep your head together, okay?"

"But-"

"You'll know in a moment."

Harry shut his mouth, pressing his lips together tightly, not pleased at having to wait; he had never been patient.

Ron and Neville soon stood at either side of him, forming a half circle along with the four other trainees that had all been taken in after the war.

"Robards is under the Imperius Curse," said Williamson.

"What?" Leslie Camden, the tall girl who was always called first, gasped.

Williamson held up a hand to stop more questions. "We don't know who cast it on him, and we cannot break the curse. What we do know is the purpose: to see Potter, and a fair few of us, dead. Robards had been told to wait in his office – with the damage already done – and explain it all. This brings me to what happened with Potter here." He picked up the case file from the floor. "Case C71-2-34 – The Case with the Curse of the Wasp's Sting Spear."

A couple of the gathered people gasped.

"It is a curse connected to an Anglo-Roman artefact which is inscribed with the words Potter spoke. Whenever someone sees them, they are compelled, and will be unable to resist speaking them, which activates the curse. What will happen now is that at the slightest provocation, Potter will start to kill anyone he perceives as a threat, going into a frenzy. It will not stop at enemies. He'll kill anyone who happens to be near, and he will not stop until he too, is dead. Do you all understand? Do not provoke Potter. And Potter, you can pack your things up, I'm afraid that this is the end of your Auror career-"

"No!" Harry exclaimed and just as that the lilac glow began to return to his skin.

"Calm down!" his handler – or should that be former handler now? – said sharply. "You will trigger the curse if you do not calm down." Williamson gripped Harry's shoulders as the others backed away cautiously. "Breathe with me, Harry. In. Out. In. Out." Harry followed the advice, feeling the sudden madness ebb out. "In and out; that's it." The glow faded. "How're you doing?"

"I'm not quitting," he said, focusing on keeping calm even as he wanted to rage. "There must be a way to fix what happened; I can't go around life like a ticking time-bomb."

"When this case was active in the seventies, four people were struck with the curse and no less than fourteen witches and wizards and eleven Muggles died. One of the four is still alive today, though, and he's living a productive, if quiet, life. There's no reason you can't live a full life too, Potter. You just have to be cautious. A regular routine of calming potions adapted for long-term use can be of help."

"No, that can't be it. What if we destroy the artefact? If it's so dangerous, it should be destroyed. I've destroyed Dark artefacts before; this shouldn't be different."

"We would have done that if we had it. For a long time it was kept in Rome, but someone tried to steal it, so it was moved here. And once it was in place down in the Department of Mysteries, the thief succeeded. There's nothing we can do."

"Sorry, Harry." Ron said from his side. "I've heard about this. It's not something you mess around with. You'll have to be careful or-"

"Or I end up a mass murderer and dead myself, yeah, I get it!" His temper was rising again; it had not been so bad since he was fifteen. He took a few deep breaths, before the glow of the curse could return. "This is not happening."

"We'll set you up with a counsellor if you like, someone who can help you deal with it," Williamson added. "I'm sorry, Potter. You deserve so much better."

 **ooo**

"Aren't you afraid of me?" Harry asked later that night as he was sitting on the sofa together with Ginny – they'd moved in together at the end of summer, hoping to build a future as a couple. They'd settled in at Grimmauld Place for the time being, and had spent most of their free time making the place a bit brighter than it had been during the Order's stay in the house.

"Don't be silly," she said. "I know that you won't hurt me. We'll get through this together. We'll find a way to make it work. I know it's unfair. You've been through too much already, but it's all shown you what you can achieve. This will work. Life might not be what you thought it would be, but..." She sighed. "I don't believe in divination any more than you do, but perhaps this is a sign that your destiny isn't to fight, that it's meant to be something else now, something more peaceful." She grabbed Harry's hand, squeezing it firmly.

"I guess I should try to see it as an opportunity," he said. "It's just that... I've worked so hard to be an Auror. I don't know what else I could be good at. If I can't get upset, Quidditch certainly isn't an alternative. Though it'd sort of be a laugh if I could play for the Wimbourne Wasps." He let out a strained chuckle, which Ginny returned with a smile.

"No one expects you to decide what to do with your life in just a day," she said. "Take your time. I'll help you every step of the way, if you want it."

"Thank you." He squeezed her hand back, giving her a tired but grateful smile. He was beginning to relax, but he shouldn't have; if Thursday the twelfth of November, 1998 had been a bad day, then there needed to be a new word added to the dictionary for what happened on Friday the Thirteenth.

 **ooo**

There was a crash downstairs in the early morning as the London street outside was abandoned and dark. Harry was instantly out of bed and in the next moment Ginny was up too.

"Someone's broken in," she whispered.

"It seems like it." Harry's first instinct was to tell Ginny to stay away from the danger and let him deal with it, but how could he? For one, she was capable of taking care of herself, and for two, he would never be able to fight again. "We have to get out," he said.

She frowned, forgetting about the Wasp's Sting Curse for a moment, before she nodded. "Through the window?"

"Yeah."

They heard the sound of at least two people running up the stairs – it was now or never. Harry pushed Ginny towards the window. If only one of them was going to get out, it was going to be her.

"Potter!" A man had slammed open the bedroom door. "And Weasley too," he sneered.

Harry recognized the greasy, grey hair and the pockmarked face of the wizard, despite the big scar that now marked that face and the foot that had been replaced by a crude prosthesis.

"Rookwood," he said, identifying the escaped Death Eater and the man coming up behind him: Robards, still under the influence of the Imperious Curse, judging by his slightly dozy expression.

"Enjoying the Curse?"

"Sure, it's a delight," he replied, feeling the effects of the calming draught he'd taken before bed dissolving like mist under the sun. Anger was brimming under his skin, which was glowing faintly lilac again.

Rookwood's wand exploded with light, a spell shooting at Ginny, who'd stopped trying to get out. Harry snapped his own wand to counter the magic, and as he did, something snapped within him. The lilac magic of the Wasp's Sting Curse was no longer just varnish, it had gone deep inside him; he was lost to its madness. Only one person walked out of Grimmauld Place alive an hour later; mad intent driving him on. When the cursed Anglo-Roman spear-tip was found next to Rookwood's dead body, it was too late.

The Wasp's Sting is deadly, and the Wasp's Sting will kill.

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 **The End**

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 **A/N 13th** **May 2016**

This is the darkest thing I've ever written. Through implication I've killed Harry Potter. I actually killed Harry Potter – please don't kill me!

If it doesn't contain threats of death, I would love to know what you thought :)

 **Edited 22nd May 2016**

The round has been scored, so now the format has been fixed, as well as some typos and misplaced commas and whatnot. Thanks go to _Paperclippe_ , who didn't help me edit in time for the competition, but has had a hand in it now, and my judge _lokilette_.

By popular request this story will probably be used for a multi-chapter using more or less the same plot. Keep an eye out for that!


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